At sixteen, I became pen pals with a young soldier named Eddie. Then, without warning, his letters stopped, and I spent decades believing he’d been lost forever. More than fifty years later, a chance meeting at a veterans’ museum revealed the truth: neither of us had stopped writing. A simple addressing error had kept our final letters from ever reaching each other—and a lifelong friendship finally found its way home.
I was sixteen years old when my English teacher placed a stack of envelopes on our desks. “We’re participating in a letter-writing program,” she announced. “Each of you will be …
At sixteen, I became pen pals with a young soldier named Eddie. Then, without warning, his letters stopped, and I spent decades believing he’d been lost forever. More than fifty years later, a chance meeting at a veterans’ museum revealed the truth: neither of us had stopped writing. A simple addressing error had kept our final letters from ever reaching each other—and a lifelong friendship finally found its way home. Read More
